


Words Not Said

by goodworkperky



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodworkperky/pseuds/goodworkperky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will takes the back seat out of his car, covers the floor with blankets and drops a small luggage bag on to the passenger seat. It's not hard to disappear for awhile. He goes back south where the heat clings like a second skin, hangs out in the backwater roads and gets a ramshackle house from an absent owner with the cash cleaned out of his bank account months ago. It's self-inflicted exile, a punishment on himself for letting Hannibal go free, for letting Jack down."</p><p>Small one-shot written for an anonymous prompter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Not Said

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on my tumblr: goodworkperky

Understanding, Will thinks, is a fascinating and terrible thing. Because it hits in an instant with no warning, no waiting for for a person to get acclimated to the idea. It just comes. And Will is standing in the center of Hannibal's living room with an uncomfortably stiff collar around his neck and too many people milling about in fancy clothes when understanding drops on him as swiftly as a guillotine. Heart hammers like a frightened rabbit's, blood pumping at frantic speeds through ventricles.

"Will, are you alright?" Hannibal's hand closes gently around Will's wrist, other hand coming up to brush a wayward curl from his forehead. His thumb traces stubbled jaw. "You look flush."

Will nearly trips on his words as he meets Hannibal's stare. Finger goes to push glasses up the bridge of his nose, and he bows his head. "Too many people," he answers in half truth. His stomach is turning itself in knots and its killing him. Unconsciously, the fingers of his free hand are grasping tightly at his perfectly tailored suit jacket as Hannibal's thumb slides up his wrist. It does not escape the doctor's notice. 

"You're heart is racing. At this rate you will be worked into an attack." Hannibal shifts his hold to Will's hand, fingers intertwined like lacework. "I'll take you upstairs."

"Please," Will whispers as he resists slightly. "I...don't want to ruin your dinner party. I should leave."

Hannibal presses his lips to his partner's cheek in a feather-light kiss. "I had hoped you would stay. But if you must." 

Will glances around as if looking at the people, but his eyes go to trays of meat dishes, the endless assortment. He feels as if he may be sick right then and there. Nothing short of a miracle helps him hold it together. He apologizes in a choked whisper. 

Hannibal tilts his head and studies Will for a moment. "I'll walk you to your car."

"You don't...you're host."

"I can be spared for a moment." 

Will presses his back against the hood of his car, keys clenched like daggers between his knuckles. His throat is ready to yell and his body is tense because Hannibal is so close, hands coming to rest on either side of Will's face. But all he says is, "Stay the night. You shouldn't drive in your condition." 

"The dogs," Will replies weakly. But Hannibal's voice is so soft, so full of worry, that the profiler is nearly convinced for a moment that he has him wrong. He kisses his partner suddenly and undoubtedly he can feel a savagery and control shifting in the muscles hidden beneath soft clothes, a maliciousness in the kiss. Will feels like he's been flayed open and left exposed when he ends it. 

"For a moment, I feared you to be more in love with your dogs than me," Hannibal says quietly as he rests hands on hips. 

"No," Will responds without hesitation or thought. Filled with shame and regret, he knows it's not a lie and will likely never be. And in the end, all he can do is whisper "goodnight."

~~

Will takes the back seat out of his car, covers the floor with blankets and drops a small luggage bag on to the passenger seat. It's not hard to disappear for awhile. He goes back south where the heat clings like a second skin, hangs out in the backwater roads and gets a ramshackle house from an absent owner with the cash cleaned out of his bank account months ago. It's self-inflicted exile, a punishment on himself for letting Hannibal go free, for letting Jack down. He falls into a state of disarray as detrimental as sitting on train tracks. 

It's late summer when the sun is at his peak and air is thick and heavy. The heat feels as if the world has been turned into a slow roasting oven. But Will can't bare to look at four walls and peeling paint for another minute and now he's out with his dogs, shuffling along the dirt path away from the main roads to where it starts to meet old war trails and abandoned rail lines. Eyes stay down and Will loses track of time until he looks up again and sees the sky awash in reds and purples. Fireflies dance in the darkening underbrush and the cacophony of bugs plays like white noise. And for the briefest of seconds, Will forgets that he ever taught for the FBI, ever became a profiler, forgets cool nights wrapped in silk sheets with warm hands. And then he remembers again like he always does--the steady stream of his own accusations play like broken records in his head. He heads back to the house that is just barely beginning to feel like home. 

In the dirt driveway, behind his beat up hooptie, sits a uncomfortably familiar sleek black Bentley. Will grabs the front of his shirt and his stomach does aerials as his gaze searches for the accompanying figure. 

Hannibal steps down from the porch, stairs creaking beneath his weight. "Hello," he says with a slight knowing smirk.

"Is it?" Will answers. "We never did say goodbye."


End file.
